


The Anatomy of a Rose

by pasteloblivion



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Slow Updates, get ready for a shitty au, i love whizzer with all my heart, i'm really excited to write this tbh, same for jason, this happens in 1979, this is bad I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:23:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasteloblivion/pseuds/pasteloblivion
Summary: In the eyes of those around him, Marvin Richards has it all: a well-paying job, a loving wife, and a brainy son. His household is the epitome of domestic life, with family dinners and little league baseball games to show for it. But behind closed doors, his tight-knit family hosts a variety of well-kept secrets, including one which Marvin intends to die with: his attraction to men. Influenced by the reigns of heterosexual marriage, his overbearing masculinity, and the bigoted views of his small town neighbors, he keeps his sexuality under lock and key. But when Marvin meets Whizzer Brown, the openly gay florist with secrets of his own, things start to change. Despite the town's homophobic and often violent attitudes towards Whizzer, Marvin finds himself enamored by his flamboyant lifestyle. As an affair takes shape between the two, secrets are shared, tension in town begins to thicken, familial relationships crumble, and a question is raised: can Marvin balance the weight of leading two separate lives?





	1. Talks With Strangers

It’s sometime past seven o’clock, and quite frankly, Whizzer Brown is beginning to feel rather suffocated by the conversation. He knows that Cordelia isn’t to blame for her often overbearing empathy, but that doesn’t prevent a new wave of exhaustion from forming with every anxious word she speaks. What started as an innocent question from his boss quickly devolved into a game of repeating himself, a frown taking refuge on his features as he assures her that he’s willing to close the flower shop tonight. By now, well over fifteen minutes have passed since her first signs of concern, and nearly no progress has been made. He tries to soothe her, but for the most part finds himself caught in a loop of her frantic, fast-paced worries.

“You sure you’ll be okay locking up for me, Whizzer?” Cordelia asks for the fourth time that evening, a nervous grin on her lips as she points to the front door. “I’ve gotta go soon, but if you’re still not sure about it, I can totally reschedule!”

Whizzer’s lengthy exhale fills the space. “I’ve already told you that it’s alright, ‘Delia! You and Charlotte work harder than anyone I know, you deserve a night of peace.”

She’s standing only inches away from his seat at the counter, a hand tapping repeatedly on the worn wood. There’s an evident note of anxiety with every tap. “I just don’t wanna burden you with any unwanted overtime for something unprofessional. It’s been a busy day, so I’m sure you want nothing more than to go home and relax.”

“The only things waiting for me at home are cobwebs and boxes of instant noodles. I have no problem with staying a little later than usual,” Whizzer laughs.

“I know, but it just feels weird. I’m asking my best friend to work overtime purely so my girlfriend and I can go on a date! Doesn’t that strike you as selfish?”

“Not at all. Tell me, when’s the last time you and Charlotte had a real date night? And no, eating takeout and arguing about adopting a cat doesn’t count.”

The nervousness in Cordelia’s gaze melts into concentration as she thinks. “Let’s see, there was that one weekend where we left town and had a picnic in a field, so that’s about… five months?”

“Christ, that’s worse than I thought. This date absolutely needs to happen, ‘Delia!” Whizzer tilts his head. “Besides, you already know how hard it is for same-sex couples to live in this goddamn part of town. I obviously don’t live in these horrible suburbs anymore, so it’s a little easier for me, but I still know what it’s like. We’re constantly cowering in fear of being casted out. The tight-knit neighbors hate us. We don’t get the chance to focus on romance, unlike every straight person in Creekwood. If you have the rare chance to go on a date with the person you love, you need to take it!”

Cordelia frowns at the mention of bigotry. It’s a topic that neither likes to speak about due to unpleasant experiences, but it seems to shake some sense into her. “You actually have a fair point, y’know. And I guess it would be pretty nice to stop worrying about flowers for the night…”

“Yeah, exactly!”

A moment of silence comes and goes as Cordelia ponders the choice she’ll make. After what feels like several minutes, she clears her throat. A well-manicured hand finds its way to Whizzer’s palm, and the familiar gesture is enough to make her crack a smile. “Alright, I’ll go! God, I just… thank you so much, Whiz. I didn’t want to tell you how excited I actually am, just in case you weren’t on board with this, but it means so much that this is actually happening.”

Whizzer smiles, ignoring the bitter feeling in his stomach. He watches a lovelorn expression form in her eyes as she babbles on about Charlotte, his easy going demeanor becoming somewhat forced. He’s known Cordelia for most of his life, and the memories they’ve shared over the years are immeasurable. Play dates in elementary school, venturing into the woods to share secrets, awkwardly discovering their sexualities in high school, supporting one another and ignoring Whizzer’s homophobic neighbors, opening the flower shop… the list goes on. He’d do anything for his best friend, and knows that she’d do the same. Sacrificing an evening to loneliness for the sake of her joy is not unheard of, and he’s more than willing to do so. Even if it means spending another night behind the register, drowning in hidden, built-up waves of jealousy.

His jealousy can’t be pinned on Cordelia, of course. She and Charlotte are easily Whizzer’s favorite people in town, and the secretive romance between them is something beautiful. Their sexualities, unlike his own, are still kept under lock and key to prevent the town’s bigots from intervening. But behind closed doors, they shed the alibi of close friendship and replace it with the truth: a loving relationship. Whizzer has witnessed a heartwarming sense of passion form between them as times goes on, and often regrets how he’ll never find a relationship quite like theirs. He wholeheartedly dislikes the domestic lifestyle, the idea of holding only one person for the rest of his days, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling jealous. He craves the feeling of holding another man, even if only for one passionate night. It’s a feeling he hasn’t been granted in years-- not only does Creekwood have a gay population of nearly zero, it also hosts its fair share of homophobia. He hasn’t had a hookup in roughly two years, and it’s beginning to drive him insane. 

Long story short, perhaps he’s more than a little sexually frustrated. 

The chime of the entrance bell fills the cramped building, interrupting Cordelia’s unheard sentence. A polite smile finds its way to Whizzer’s lips as he watches an older man, perhaps in his late thirties, walk into the shop. The stranger’s gaze ricochets between the numerous cramped tables and bouquets of flowers, before eventually landing on Whizzer. What catches the florist’s eye is not his attractive exterior, but rather his horrible square tie. He’s clearly never seen this man before; he’d remember an outfit as tasteless as that. And for a town like Creekwood, meeting a handsome stranger isn’t a daily occurence.

Cordelia releases Whizzer’s hand, scooping her belongings into her purse. She ruffles his hair before walking towards the door, acknowledging the customer with a brief nod of her head. “I think I should leave now, she’ll probably be expecting me soon. See you tomorrow, Whiz!”

“Later, ‘Delia,” Whizzer says, eyes still trained on the stranger. His best friend exits the shop without another word, and he’s suddenly alone with the attractive customer. It’s one of the few things he hates about working here, having to deal with handsome heterosexual men. 

“Welcome to Cordelia’s Floral Paradise,” the florist monotones, smoothing out a wrinkle in his shirt. He stands up to greet the customer, and is vaguely pleased to notice that he’s several inches taller. “I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need.” 

The customer quirks an eyebrow. “Well, you’re certainly not what I was expecting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The man doesn’t break his stare. Whizzer notices the ocean-esque tint of his eyes, and the bitter feeling returns in his stomach. Rather than jealousy, however, it’s now intrigue. He’s already picturing a million possible backstories for this man.“You don’t really look like a ‘Cordelia’ to me.”

“That’s because she’s the one who just left, sir. My name is Whizzer.”

Surprise crinkles his features. “Whizzer? Is that a nickname, or did your parents--”

The florist suppresses a groan, feeling vaguely worn out. He’s always been the analytical type, and it’s somewhat uncomfortable when someone analyzes him. He diverts the topic back to the customer. “That’s my legal name, actually. It’s on my birth certificate and everything. Speaking of which, can I have your name?”

“Oh, sorry! I’m Marvin Richards.”

“Marvin? Is that a nickname?” Whizzer teases without thinking, horrified when he realizes that he indeed just mocked a customer. His sarcastic demeanor often comes out at the worst times. “Shit, that wasn’t supposed to--”

Marvin laughs, and Whizzer feels his pulse move faster. God, he’s hot. “It’s alright, I had that coming. Anyway, I’m here to buy a bouquet for my wife, Trina.”

“For your wife, huh?” Whizzer tries to keep disappointment from spilling into his tone. So much for flirting, he supposes. “What’s the occasion? Anniversary, birthday, apology for cheating?”

Another warm laugh. “Not that last one, thankfully. I figured that I’d buy her one just for the hell of it. Just between us, I’m not around the house very much, so it’s a thank you, if anything. She does all of the housework, cooks, takes care of our son…”

“Ah, so you’re the stoic, misunderstood family man?” Whizzer muses, and the customer tilts his head in confusion.

“What makes you say that?” Marvin asks.

Whizzer shrugs. “You have that vibe. The kind that says ‘I have this family that I care about deeply, but I find it kinda hard to express that. I live this charming, white picket-fence life, but keeping up with it isn’t particularly easy.’”

A scoff, though it’s somewhat amazed. “You’ve known me for five minutes, and you already have me pegged? I thought you were a florist, not a fortune teller!”

Whizzer taps at the counter. “I’m told that I’m good at reading people.”

“Jesus, even strangers?”

“Especially strangers.” 

The expression on Marvin’s face is pinned somewhere between curiosity and interest. It’s unprofessional to converse with customers while working, but neither seems to care. “How the hell do you do something like that?”

Another shrug. He genuinely wasn’t expecting Marvin to be interested in this, so he’s a little caught off-guard. “Being a florist isn’t always the most fun job, so I’ve picked up this game where I try to map out the life of a customer based on information they give me. Little things, like accent or family life, y’know? And chances are I’m almost always wrong, but it’s still kinda fun.”

“And it’s just… that easy?”

A nod is the only answer that Whizzer gives.

Marvin bites his lip. “C’mon, there’s no way it’s just like that!”  
“You’d be surprised, actually. For example, I can infer that you’re probably from one of the upper-class suburbs, based on that expensive looking watch and your brand name shirt. Probably have a decent paying job and a nice big house, too.”

Truthfully, Whizzer doesn’t know why he’s sharing this. He typically keeps these observations to himself, in fear of losing business by creeping someone out. This is the kind of hobby he’d never openly share, and yet here he is, gushing about it to a stranger. To Marvin, the open book who doesn’t mind being analyzed at a flower shop. It’s an odd situation, to say the least. 

“I hate the fact that you’re actually right,” Marvin admits, laughing. “God, I feel like I’m at the psychiatrist or something!”

Whizzer smiles. Perhaps this unattainable straight man is a tolerable customer. He seems genuine enough; pleasant to talk to, fun to analyze, certainly nice to look at. He’s mild-mannered, too. Even the arrogant upper-class vibe he exudes, compared to entitled customers of the past, is relatively polite. He carries himself in a way that most wealthy Creekwood residents don’t, as though he actually cares about what people like Whizzer have to say. People with noticeably low-paying jobs, people who work as cashiers for pompous bastards and try desperately to keep their sanity. And to the florist, that means something. He just wishes that Marvin weren’t so goddamn attractive, so he could forget about him a little quicker. He’ll probably never interact with him again. So why is he thinking about a night with a man he knows to be straight?

If there’s one thing Whizzer hates, it’s his insatiable sex drive. 

He’s eventually brought back into the present when Marvin coughs, and he realizes that he’s staring. Sheepishly, he grins. “Sorry, guess I zoned out for a second. Back to flowers. You said you were looking for a bouquet as a thank you for your wife?”

Marvin nods. “Mhm. Something like roses, maybe? I think she likes those.”

Whizzer laughs. “You think?”

“I, uh, don’t remember if she’s ever told me, actually. But everyone likes roses, right?”

“That depends on who you ask. Personally, I love them. I think they’re romantic. But ask someone like Cordelia, my boss, and she’ll tell you that they’re overrated pieces of garbage,” Whizzer replies, gesturing to a large bouquet of roses on a nearby table. 

Marvin offers what might be the hint of a smile. “I trust your judgement, Whizzer. Anyone who can look into my soul after just ten minutes must know what they’re talking about.”

Another laugh escapes Whizzer’s lips. “Flattered, sir.”

“Just call me Marvin,” the shorter man says. “I’d like to think that after that strange yet accurate analysis, you’re allowed to use my first name.”

“Alright, alright! I’m flattered, Marvin,” the florist mutters. For a conversation with someone he’ll never speak to again, this has been surprisingly nice. “So, a dozen red roses?”

“A dozen red roses,” Marvin confirms.

Whizzer feels the customer’s eyes follow him as he turns around, grabbing a tall vase from the wooden shelf. Marvin continues to watch him as he prepares the bouquet. He counts out twelve roses and trims the stems, removing the thorns. A packet of flower feed is thrown into the bag. All throughout the process, the feeling of being watched lingers, but Whizzer doesn’t dare mention it. Maybe he’s simply lost in thought and doesn’t realize he’s staring, or something.

“Well, here it is,” he announces after another minute or so, passing the finalized bouquet to Marvin. “That’ll be $15.65, plus tax.”

After fumbling with his wallet for a laughable period of time, Marvin gives the flower shop one final look, his gaze coming to a rest on the florist himself. “Thanks for all the help, Whizzer. I’m sure she’s gonna love it.”

Whizzer simply grins as he watches the shorter man exit the building, the feeling of finality crossing his mind. He won’t admit it, but maybe he’s a little sad to see him go so soon. Customer interaction means nearly nothing to him, of course, but there’s something inherently interesting about Marvin, as if he’s hiding something beneath that mild-mannered facade. Something that not even the florist can figure out at first glance. Something that, if only he cared a little more about meaningless talks with strangers, Whizzer would probably want to find out.


	2. A Tight-Knit Tribulation

For what is certainly not the first time in his life, Marvin Richards is late for dinner. With the bouquet set hastily in the passenger seat, his car speeds through neighborhood after neighborhood of wealthy townhomes. The clock on his dashboard reads sometime past seven, which rallies his nerves in a familiar act of exhaustion. He imagines the empty pots and pans on the stovetop, the soon-to-be-icy food sitting idle on expensive plates as his wife pleads with their son to simply wait. The ticks of the grandfather clock in the den flooding into the quiet dining room. Jason poking a fork into whatever meal Trina has made, annoyed yet again by his father’s tardiness. Trina’s smile wearing thin as she watches the clock, absentmindedly fiddling with her wedding ring. He imagines both members of his tight-knit family wondering where in the world he could be.

He makes a turn. To be fair, his presence at the table won’t change much. Their tense table atmosphere is something that never seems to waver. Unlike the facade he had pulled together at the flower shop, the utmost happiness that comes with having a tight-knit family, the details in their story are beyond imperfect. To neighbors and strangers alike, the Richards are a lovely family. Their whitened smiles and warm voices are more than enough to convince the town of their loving bond. A perfect family, consisting of a beautiful wife, an intelligent son, and a stoic husband. Though their picket-fence lifestyle is clear to anyone outside of the household, the actuality of their relationship is something entirely different. Dozens of skeletons line the shelves of their closets, all things that they find themselves hiding from friends, relatives, and in some cases, each other. As he pulls closer to the house, Marvin ponders the cracks in their familial roots.

His wife? A saddened woman who clings desperately to feelings that never existed. A woman who plays the housewife role given to her by Marvin, but craves affection that he doesn’t care to provide. A woman who tries to make her husband love her, but simply cannot.

His son? A whiny, often petulant child who resents his parent’s knack for pretending that everything is fine. A child who doesn’t appreciate the material gifts given to him by his father. A child whose raw intelligence irks Marvin to his very core.

Marvin, himself? A man who doesn’t deserve to be stuck in a loveless marriage, but finds himself in one anyway. A man who harbors the biggest secret of all, one that’s too big for this small town to handle. A man that has it all, but still wants more. 

Another corner is turned, and he reaches his neighborhood. The car passes a large sign which welcomes him to Marigold Avenue. Endless well-kept lawns and colorful flower beds fill his vision, and there’s not a pothole in sight as he carries on down the street. The thoughts regarding secrets are temporarily abolished. A small smile finds its way to his lips. Despite the less-than-loving attitude he harbors when around his family, one thing he can appreciate about coming home for the night is the overall appearance of his street. As an architect, he enjoys the complex designs which adorn the wealthy homes, the large windows and cobblestone walkways. It’s one of the few things in his life that he need not pretend to be passionate about, but rather finds himself unapologetically thrilled for. Call him fake, two-faced, any negative connotation you can conjure, but the fact remains: there are very few things which interest him more than his career. 

He pulls into the driveway, stepping out of the vehicle with little more than a careless huff. Bouquet in hand, he approaches the door. A prayer quickly grabs his attention, a prayer that the unbearable prospect of making polite conversation over a meal with his family lessens itself. He can’t stand the theatrics of it all. The fake grins and quiet tones as each member of the table recounts their day and crams mediocre food into their mouths. Another thing he dislikes about the process? Trina’s affinity for trying new, god-awful recipes from the cookbooks she buys with his money. If he’s going to provide her with everything she needs and more, the least she can do is cook a meal or two that doesn’t make him feel nauseated. 

All too soon, he arrives. Marvin unlocks the door, preparing himself for the lifeless routine that’s soon to come. Admittedly, he’s a little shocked when he’s greeted with voices, rather than the typical silence. There’s a pause in his actions as he tries to listen, but he can’t quite make out what they’re saying from his position. He wipes his shoes on the doormat, as per his wife’s request, and creeps curiously into the dining room. Neither Trina nor Jason seem to notice his footsteps, perhaps due to the heated discussion that rages between them. What the hell is going on? He watches in intrigued silence as his son picks up a fork, glaring daggers at his mother.

Trina bites her lip, leaning across the table to touch Jason’s hand. “Sweetie, I’ve told you plenty of times now that we don’t start eating until your father arrives!”

“I don’t understand why we can’t just start without him, Mom!” the ten-year-old groans, wrenching his fingers away. “It’s not like he even wants to eat with us, anyway.”

A sigh, and Trina wipes her hands on the cooking apron she’s neglected to take off. Her voice exudes something similar to exhaustion. “Honey, don’t say things like that.”

“But it’s true!” Jason replies.

“Your father is a busy man, Jason! He works long shifts at the architectural company, attends daily meetings, and gets almost no time off. You should cut him a little slack,” Trina rationalizes, though she doesn’t convinced by her own words.

Their son rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t care about us, Mom. Can’t you see it? He loves that company more than his own family! He’d rather spend his time designing buildings for places that he’ll never see than talk to us.”

From the doorway, Marvin pinches the bridge of his nose. Great, his son is in the midst of yet another whiny outburst. The unforgiving words annoy him, to say the least. What provoked this tantrum? Sure, he’s been absent a little more than he’d like to admit, but is missing the occasional dinner or two really something to scream about? He never asked Trina to place this silly ‘no eating without Marvin’ rule, so why is his wife’s foolish desire to eat as a family his fault? And in addition to the already misplaced anger, why does his son act like Marvin doesn’t care for them? He works his ass off to pay the bills, and his large paycheck does more than enough to compensate for any missed events. He puts food on the table, provides electricity and running water, overstocks their wardrobes with expensive clothing, and still manages to afford luxuries such as cable and magazine subscriptions! How dare Jason say that Marvin doesn’t care, when the father easily makes up for his cold attitude with materialistic gifts?

Before Trina can respond to Jason’s unkind jest, the architect clears his throat. Both heads snap towards the dining room doorway, and their expressions become sheepish. Jason quickly averts his eyes, while Trina clasps her palms together and rises from her seat. An intense expression reaches her eyes. “Hello, Marv!” she cooes, untieing the apron from her waist and rushing to set it on the hook. She saunters forward and places a hand on her husband’s shoulder, and it takes all of Marvin’s willpower not to brush her fingers away. “We’re really happy to see you.”

He gives a monotone greeting, pretending that he hadn’t heard Jason’s tantrum. He’d prefer to get through this meal as soon as possible. “Hello, Trina. I picked up something for you after work.”

“Really? What is it, sweetheart?”

“Surprise, dear,” Marvin says, the nickname leaving an unsettling feeling on his tongue. Christ, he loathes being affectionate. Why did he buy these in the first place? His hands swing out from behind him, revealing the fresh bouquet in his grip.

“Oh, these are lovely!” Trina gushes, smelling the roses before setting them down. A quick kiss on Marvin’s cheek, and she leads him to the table. “Thank you, honey. I love them!”

Marvin shrugs. This conversation is already pitiful, and he hasn’t even started eating yet. “It was really nothing, honey.”

“Honestly, darling, these are great! Where did you find such vibrant flowers at this time of year?” Trina queries, passing Marvin a plate. He grimaces at the sight of slightly overcooked chicken, lumpy mashed potatoes, and raw broccoli. A typical, unsatisfying dinner.

“Got them from that flower shop on Penfield Lane,” he answers simply. “Met an interesting cashier with a funny name, though.”

A smile, perhaps a bit too wide. “Oh, really? I could use a laugh. What was it?”

“Whizzer,” Marvin replies through a mouthful of potatoes. Jason makes a disgusted grunt, muttering something about talking with food in your mouth that his father doesn’t quite hear.

Trina hums disapprovingly. “I’m sorry, did you say Whizzer? As in ‘Whizzer Brown’?”  
Another shrug from Marvin. “I didn’t catch a surname, but I would assume that Whizzer isn’t exactly common. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I don’t mean to sound gossipy, but the ladies in my Sunday brunch were talking about him a fews weeks ago, and…” Trina trails off, glancing uncomfortably at her son.

He sets down his fork, now interested in this topic. “Well, what is it?”

“Jason, sweetheart, would you mind covering your ears for a moment?” Trina asks, and though she receives another glare, her wish is granted. She leans closer to her husband, voice hardly above a whisper. “I heard that a few years back, before we moved here, he was caught…”

“Spit it out, Trina!”

Trina’s fingers clutch the Star of David pendant on her neck. “Well, he was caught… in a sexual relationship with another man,” she finally reveals, and Marvin can now feel the blood pumping in his heart. He’s not the only one!

He offers a tense smile, hiding the exhilaration that’s gnawing at his core. “Christ, really? What happened to the other man?”

“He moved away,” his wife says. “I suppose he couldn’t handle the town’s wrath. But Whizzer, on the other hand, apparently does his best to stay put. I’m sure the residents don’t make it easy for him, though, and for good reason!”

“What reason would that be, dear?”

Trina looks at her husband as though he’s suddenly grown a second head. “He’s a homosexual, honey. Personally, I couldn’t care less about his sexual preference, but we live in a town full of devout conservatives. They hate him, so…”

Marvin is getting impatient. “So?”

“In order to keep up with public appearance, we’re kind of obligated to dislike him,” his wife reminds, sipping from her wine glass.

Marvin quirks an eyebrow. He didn’t realize that his wife is so distinctly aware of the town’s gossip, not to mention how blatantly scandalous some of it can be. “That seems unfair.”

Trina tilts her head, making sure that Jason isn’t listening. “Since when have you cared about anyone outside of our immediate circle?” she asks, no malice in her tone. “Especially a gay man?”

Marvin averts his eyes, speaking quickly. He has to fix his temporary lapse in judgement immediately. “Mhm, you’re right. Forget that I said anything.”

Returning back to his food, it occurs to him just how dangerous his secret is. It’s something he’s been hiding for years. A suspicion that nested into his thoughts and refused to leave. The revelation is weighted, to put it lightly-- it could crush his marriage into millions of pieces with just one sentence-- but that doesn’t his heart from beating with glee. The table goes silent, and he’s left to ponder the situation. It started small, with stolen glances at attractive men and new subscriptions to magazines with male models. He noticed how the very idea of being with a man thrilled him more than his current sex life could ever hope to, but didn’t act on it. Marvin figured it would pass, that one day he’d look at his wife and feel something, but that day never came. And though years have passed, he still finds himself drooling at the thought. But until this very moment, he’s never so much as met another gay man, so the opportunity to test his theory has never arisen.

Truthfully, he’s a little unsure of how to feel. Scared? Indifferent? Happy that he’s not the only man in Creekwood who doesn’t exude heterosexuality? He supposes he’ll never actually meet the attractive florist again, lest he decides to buy another bouquet, but the the thought of him is intriguing. To Marvin, he’s undoubtedly handsome, with his tanned arms and perfectly-styled hair. Before he was even aware of the man’s sexuality, he found himself interested. When he spoke, the thoughts that ran through Marvin’s head were admittedly inappropriate. Their conversation alone was outstanding; something that the architect will cherish for weeks to come. He left store relatively quickly, but the lust that crossed his mind wasn’t so easily shaken. And if Marvin were just a little braver, or the town were a little more supportive, or he was a little less constricted by the bonds of marriage, perhaps he’d pursue someone like Whizzer Brown.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading chapter one! updates on this story are most likely going to be slow, so i'm sorry in advance about that. as always, feedback is vastly appreciated!


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